Nomad rapscallion, last stallion out the gate. Breakin late - shit last year I was barely makin weight, so ha- ters hate, won't even play my tape. Fuckin sleepy heads. I've got insomnia; I just prefer to stay awake. Move from place to place. Y'all suspect it's randomly-selected rambl- -ing. Correct except I'm handily collecting family. Hectic scrambling cuz life is never how I planned it. Be like welcome to my beautiful, dark, transient fantasy. From west club, chest tuggin me across the continent. I'm lost and wandering but awfully confident. Left my Bull City fam in a full mini-van; it's now clear: they say it ain't where ya from cuz they ain't from around here. So where you at then? Gotta check the map then. I'm makin moves, shakin loose, better be strapped in. Breaking rules, approaching the limit. There's no place I haven't actually been; only a distance. Your whole existence is Newtonian physics: an object in motion stays in motion till it's totally finished like the moon wanes and opens creating waves in oceans. That's that can't stop, won't stop crazy notion. Still rollin like the brakes are broken. When you gonna settle down, homie? When you gonna level out? Never. What you tryna reach, dude? Nothing. I don't even need to. Stop pushing; just move and be moved. It's all process. It's all practice. It's all another page of the atlas. The planet while it turns on it's axis. I'm only here to travel on, bearded vaga- -bond, so when I'm leaving y'all can feel free to tag along. Otherwise, no hard feelings. It wasn't meant to be, and if I keep moving, I'll come back around eventually. Un- til then, just love. I'll leave by noon. No- -where to go, but I'm getting there. See y'all soon.

Caution: Look out for the closing doors. I take a book out; we're rolling forwards. I call these driftwood mornings. We ride currents a couple blocks up, and wash up, just lost up on lonely shores. The afternoon commute back is holy war. Stacked with brothers looking wholly bored, single mothers with their toddlers and some plastic bags from clothing stores, waiting for the station that they're rolling towards. Troubled feet lean back and forth with the rumble-screech, tunnels reach every cranny underneath the jungle streets. You next to anybody? Find another seat. Don my headphones and huddle deep in a lovely beat. The phones are actually silent; it's a mind game so I ain't gotta talk to grimy strangers on the 5-train. There's a wide range and writin dialogue's a migraine. I'm just tryna keep shit movin; that's the mindframe. [Chorus] x8 Keep movin. Keep movin. Keep movin. Morning- -time, it's the tops of heads lookin at their iPhones, same on the ride home, waitin for milestones, a- -wake with your eyes closed to actual people in your vi- -cinity. So every day I'm lookin at it differently. Like you ever think of this shit here like a pilgrimage? Lost in the wilderness, wandering through villages? And we're in this Biblical trance with hands clappin, ful- -filling this ritual dance to Manhattan. The crammed wagon, yeah it's disorderly business, but it's sacred, it's sort of religious. And normally minutes are wasted, waiting till we're almost there. But "stand back from the platform"'s my call to prayer. It's all mental. In the afternoons, it's all gentle. Look at the 3-train, y'all, it's all temple. Might be on a workshift or you wanna worship, but either way you better keep moving. That's perfect [Chorus] That's the motto. As soon as I show up then I'm runnin out. Shit, man, if not New York, then just another town But lookin back at that summer now I wonder how I lived half my day in the clouds; and half underground. Maybe this city was a waste of my time. You could spend your whole day on the grind tryna wreck shit, just another grape on the vine tryna get picked, just another face in the line, better step quick. I spent a lot of time tryna find harmony on trains far beneath all the city's clogged arteries. Heat made it hard to breathe, speakin half-heartedly, and even then, wanting the city to be part of me: eyes lightin up like Broadway acts, veins on the back of my hand looking like subway maps. But that's a dream. There's one way there and one way back. Get on the fuckin runway, Zach, you gotta keep moving. [Chorus]

There's something skewed about the world; you can feel it too. It's stronger than weed - gives more spins than spirits do. Portside, I'm tryna catch a clearer view. I know this boat floats, but most folks just try to steer it through. Look, we're all playing the same level - let's stop cheating and start lettin the game settle. Get on some grown shit; life's too important to be homesick but still too fragile to be left alone with. Have you ever considered that the best time in your life is right now? That's a heavy burden to carry. You better muscle the fuck up and get with the right crowd; fight loud with the voice of every person you bury. Now I spend my sunsets on Brooklyn rooftops tryina maximize the shelf life of melting foodstocks, dealing with rude cops, and tryna catch a bootknock. We're only hearing samples; what's it sound like when the loop stops? I bought a ticket for a southbound bus Avoid the downtown rush, it leaves mid-morning on a Tuesday. I'm not exactly sure how many weeks or days I have to go; I sleep away the calendar - it just seems practical. Actually, I've measured my life in coffee spoons, nights without sleep, highschool crushes, and lofty tunes. Conversion rates suggest it's probably June, but on the page it seems I've got a couple days, and that's oftly soon. I guess we all could be in tempo? Maybe not. The only thing that matters is momentum; it's too late to stop. Apartment walls are speechless, but I'll make em talk remind me of September if I feel the urge to break it off. And when I'm takin off? Won't even need to hustle. Hearts cramp up but never break; they're only muscle. This shit is distance training. No more wish list praying, pick your bags up and quit complaining. Now everyday I work to find a balance, my brow's dripping like how'm I supposed to be a cloud drifting when the ground's splitting? Kids all around listening. They love the music, but I'm makin more than noise; I'm tryna be crowd-lifting. This is for the girl whose kisses I'm now missing, my boys from back home - yall keepin the town glistening, and everybody standing around with their mouths grinning: don't frown, but life isn't always about winning. We are all pieces of shit. Quit laughin. That's not an insult, I'm just sayin that shit happens. Don't get it twisted, this isn't pessimism. I'm fluent in reality, just tryna add some weight to the analogy, but that mentality's never enough. We're only lonely freshly-grown fallacies composed of flesh and bone, so I spend my mornings on the mountain throwin stones. No matter what road I travel, I'm going home. Where do we go from here? Where do we go from here?

So I've been thinking bout this one night that shed some sunlight on the relationship between my art and my love life: I met this girl at a poetry slam. She said "You wanna find a place to talk? You know that we can." So we start a little back and forth. She's like, "Do you con- sider yourself an artist?" I'm like, "Yeah, what're you asking for?" She said, "Well, I can't tell if you're really rappin or just sound like Macklemore, but I think you need practice more." ZachG, the bachelor, yes I'm single, ladies Catch me in the club dancing to Single Ladies with every single lady. I don't mind constructive criti- -cism, but I'd rather try my luck with different women. Just need someone to hold me tight, and, well, I gotta stop trying to meet girls at open mics. The issue is I'm often on the road, so there's a lot of lonely nights. And my only vice is that I don't take my own advice. Yeah, I'm stupid crazy for the women making music daily, a cutie lady who could maybe play the ukulele. Give me some time and I'll fixate on any girl who makes me a mixtape. And these days I've been drinking more and sleeping less and getting writers' block. I'm a freaking mess. Fuck, son. I just need someone to fuck, love, run from, and write songs about until the next one comes. So now I've got a hunch: love is a cheap trick. Love is a bad joke. Love is some weak shit. Love is that bully I got beef with. And all that's left for me to do is make some art about my aching heart, or I could maybe start writing less instead of more and stop concealing all of my feelings in metaphor, stop singing songs for these girls who won't listen and start actually speaking to grown women.

Yes. And it just comes back around. But out of everything that was important nothing matters now. Yes. It just comes back around. And I guess that's how it's been ever since I got that cap and gown. Yes. And it just comes back around. At least we're laughin now. Shit. I dunno. What happens now? Yes. It just comes back around. It just comes back around. It just comes back around. Some sorrow has a funny way of circling back. That's what my dude says, and it's perfectly apt. And now I'm gone, drivin, traversin the map. Playing songs, rhymin, thinkin about how some relationships are all timin. Paul Simon's singin sayin somethin about losing love and how it's obvious like you're bruising up for an audience. True enough. I'm hiding it, trying to move forward but still sorta sore from my collision with a Ford explorer. Now that actually happened, but right now it's more suitable for use as a metaphor about fucking up something beautiful. We'll call it mutual or the decision was best, still left me with a stitch in my chest, hitch in my step. Shit, it's your guess. I don't know. She wanted to break it clean, but I was on the fence, and that's the reason I made a scene. Thinkin maybe it's true love. Maybe it's make believe. Maybe it's wishful thinking. Maybe it's Maybelline. Whatever it was, she had me flush with bravado, drivin a couple thousand miles just to hit Colorado, and now my head's spinning. My mind's fuzzy; I'm hairbrained. I'm spendin all my money on airplanes. Afterwords I used my frequent flyer miles to buy a bunch of magazines. I guess I'd like to know what's happening. But actually, that's how I learned it's all a matter of perpective. The heart's subjective. In retrospect that's what I should've expected. Like... She thought love was mathematical, something ration- -al that you can add and subtract as if it's capital. I think love's less about accumulating or losing worth and more of this limitless, unchecked force in the uni- -verse. And it's confusing, sure. In fact it's ridicu- -lous how difficult it is to find something ubiquitous, like writing a verse that actually works. It's off-putting, but I don't think you'll see the real thing until you stop looking. I mean I'm tryna get my feet in the door, and the days that I want it less are when I'm needing it more. Like fuck dating. Get lovesick. Fuck waiting. Get published. I'm not really underground; I'm just being ignored. Besides, we were always kind of off, and I was always holding back, and she had always told me that we're a bad match according to the zodiac. So, um... Yeah. We'll go with that. Now I'm thinking holy crap. That's probably why she never wrote me back. But at this point, I don't even wanna be near women, gear- shiftin, for now I'll be only career-driven. Here, listen, just watch me. The kid's so nice. I'm cocky. I win; no dice. I'm Rocky. I'm Kimbo Slice. Can't stop me, ridin slow-like and awfully noncha- -lant on my bike through the San Francisco ambiance, thinkin about music, poetry, living life in full- that's when a Ford Explorer up and knocked me off my bicycle. Yes. And it just comes back around. But out of everything that was important nothing matters now. Yes. It just comes back around. And I guess that's how it's been ever since I got that cap and gown. Yes. And it just comes back around. At least we're laughin now. Shit. I dunno. What happens now? Yes. It just comes back around. It just comes back around. It just comes back around.

Heyyo David, it's been a minute; thought I'd drop you a line. I was watch- -ing your film the other night and had to stop and rewind. You know I wasn't the popular kind when we were growing up, and often I find that I get jealous now that you're blowing up. I remember back when you were on the court I could sup- -port you cuz I never had a passion for sports. I was telling truths. Your were shooting hoops, and we never crossed over until you did, then I felt glossed-over and useless. Now they treat me like the new kid. I'm thinking dude wouldn't even have a camera unless I intro- -duced it. As if these stories are exclusive when obviously the problem is me just being stupid. Look I know you're not my enemy. You're my friend who wants to make some documentaries. So I'mma shake this curse. Stop stressing about who gets famous first. And in the meantime, we're gonna make it work. Come on. Yo Evan. How's it been? What's happening in Chi town? I imagine that you're on your grind now. And then I find out about this unsigned hype shit? Some five mics shit? You mean you put your music out and some guy liked it? I remember when we met freshman year like, "This kid's rhymes are whack; I'm the best one here." Back then, I'd roll my eyes when you quoted the Buddha and get up- -set because I considered you as a threat. And then junior year I won best rookie, blessedly, except to me it was insulting; I've been at that shit since seventeen. Not enough charisma for the center of the picture, and that's why those articles focused on you and never mentioned me. Eventually I'll need to confront these feelings too, but hear me, dude, it's clearly true the issue isn't really you. It's about ego, feeling subordinate. I'm done makin a sport of it, and that's the long and short of it.

It's real hard work falling out of love. Hard work falling out of love. It's real hard work falling out of love. Hard work falling out of love. I've been spending time falling out of love, time spent falling out of love. I've been spending time falling out of love, spending time falling out of love. It's real hard work falling out of love. Hard work falling out of love. It's real hard work falling out of love. Hard work falling out of love. This is the first love song I've ever written and it's dedicated to you. This is the first love song I've ever written and it's dedicated to you. See I've been playin through the memories again just to make sure that my reasonin is solid. We'll look back and say, "In college, it was easy then," and afterwards we'll put the good times away without deletin them. For instance, remember our last fight? If you can even call it that, I mean we never got loud and all of that. But it was kinda nice to finally speak after an entire week tryna meet and never callin’ back. Voicing everything I’d been waiting to say instead of sitting there and fading away, on my front porch just wasting the day. Injured, but hopefully healing. Figuring out how much pain I was supposed to be feeling. But really I'm not mad. In fact, it's a lesson. Because that's the type of passive aggression that's havin us guessin. I suppose I often doubted we could talk about it. And that's why I wrote a poem instead of askin’ a question. Leavin’ bread crumbs and hopin that you were chasin. Guess we always had a problem with open communication. See I play like I’ve improved, but this ain’t much better, askin’ everyone we know to come and read my open love letter. Look, I'm sorry that we never talked face to face, just picked the conflict up and took it with us as we moved place to place. Middletown. DC. Bull City. Brooklyn. Shit, maybe California’s my saving grace. And that’s the kicker. I ran so far away from you as if I could stop saying “I love you” just to make it true. But if I did end it, I’d also lose the friendship and get stuck with this good news but no one there to break it to. Plus, that’s dishonest. You always tried to meet me half- way, and we had good weeks in between the bad days. That’s equally true those times I’m not speakin to you and both of us are feeling like emotional ashtrays. And those morning I walked a little too heavily, nights I drank too readily, thanks for being next to me. You were always there and now it’s obvious you cared about what- ever we had too much to simply tear it down. Sometimes I’m scared and doubt that I’m where I’m supposed to be; I’m there without you - these 3000 miles are a joke to me. But it’s all too real. I’m done trying to pause the game. Time to come to terms with all the ways that I’ve been causing pain. And I get tripped up by stuff that former lovers do like watchin’ other dudes walk away with the double-u. Look, I know it's not a contest, but if it was, then, well, I thought it'd be a race that I'd run with you. I guess I’m only twenty-two. Time for something new. So I wrote this for you, and if you heard it than those three years were worth it. Look at all we’ve come through. Even if we’re not in love, I still love you. It’s real hard work falling out of love. It’s hard work falling out of love. It’s real hard work falling out of love, hard work falling out of love. But I guess it’s not about falling out of love. I’m not really falling out of love. Look, I’m not really falling out of love. I’m not really falling out of love. You've got no business falling out of love. No business falling out of love. You've got no business falling out of love. No business falling out of love. Falling out of love is just falling into love. Everything is falling into love. Life is one big falling into love. One big falling into love.